


take a sad song

by alongthewatchtower



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fingering, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Prostate Milking, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewatchtower/pseuds/alongthewatchtower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Rovers deal falls apart, Harry knows exactly where Louis needs to be, and how to make it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take a sad song

**Author's Note:**

> this is erika's fault because they were sad about Louis and the Rovers and then I was sad about Louis and the Rovers and I had to fix it. so, here's 8K of fucking and making-it-better.

Harry knows something’s wrong before Louis says anything.  
  
Harry’s in London, dodging paps and smiling for fans, a sneaky beer with Grimmy and lunch with Gemma. Louis is still in Portugal after the Rovers game, sun and hotels and a few well-documented shots of he and Eleanor together. For all the rumours and bullshit on Twitter, it’s a great barometer. A direct line to the fans, it’s a way to get instant responses to anything that happens involving them, either real or made up. Harry stands too close to Louis onstage, or Grimmy mentions him, or Niall leans in to tell him something - the fans react instantly, endless theories and pictures. Sometimes, he finds out what the other boys are up to because people tweet him about where they are, what they’re doing.  
  
So when Louis’ confident, hopeful interview in Portugal at the Rovers’ friendly game disappears, barely an hour after it’s uploaded, it makes a ripple. Within hours, it’s making waves, people tweeting Harry, tweeting Louis, unhappy emoji and _I just want to see Louis light up and talk about footie!_  Harry rather agrees, but he’s unsurprised that the interview’s been taken down. Perhaps Modest were unhappy with something Louis had said - they have more   influence on Louis’ interactions with the Rovers than either he or the club would like - and had it taken down.  
  
Louis in Portugal, and even though it’s lunchtime and Louis should definitely be awake by now, even on a day off, his phone rings out when Harry calls. Two minutes later, a text comes through from the number saved in his phone as _Becks_  (not to be confused with the actual David Beckham) _._  He’s lucky Louis is at the top of his Favourites list, because the name on his contact changes as often as Louis can get a hold of Harry’s phone. Last week he was _Olivia Newton-John_ , and Harry’s brain had gone blank for a terrifying number of seconds as he’d just stared at the phone in his hand, wondering when the hell he’d gotten Olivia bloody Newton-John’s number - has he _met_ Olivia bloody Newton-John? The answer was yes, but he realised abruptly that no, he never got her number, as he caught sight of Louis on the couch, looking decidedly too innocent. Harry couldn't see his right hand, but he’d have bet anything that Louis’s phone was in it.   
“ _Oh, you arse,”_ Harry had said.  
  
 _busy,_  Louis texts, followed by the poop emoji. It’s Louis shorthand for _management_.Modest, Rovers or Syco, Harry can’t be certain, but if it was anything to do with Modest, Harry would probably have heard about it from Paul, who can be counted on to give them a heads-up, and if it’s Syco, chances are Harry would be in meetings too. Rovers, then, probably about the crowdfunding venture. Harry knows it’s not going nearly as well as they’d hoped, but the ownership deal is inked regardless, and Louis had refused to let Harry donate.  
  
 _“Someone has to keep me in the life to which I am accustomed,”_  Louis had said, leaning back in the bath. He was even more enticing wet, tan skin against white porcelain, a foot nudging at Harry’s thigh. He certainly looked expensive, smirking at Harry from behind a heap of bubbles.  _“Keep your money, Haz. We’ll need if it this all goes tits-up.”_  
 _“It won’t,”_ Harry had said, catching hold of Louis’ foot, pressing his thumbs into the arch and watching Louis go boneless in response.  _“I believe in you.”_  
  
There’s a fuss on Twitter about a statement that’s supposedly from the Tomlinson-Ryan trust talking about the impending failure of the crowdfunder that has Modest written all over it, but Harry hasn’t even past the second line before there’s an angry response from John Ryan, calling it a fabrication of the truth. Yeah, that _definitely_ has Modest written all over it. It’s probably what Louis is in a meeting about, actually.  
  
Harry spends a few hours checking in with his accountant. It’s both boring and terrifyingly heady - the numbers on paper that Harry never, ever thought would be associated with his name, and the intricate boredom of financial responsibility. While he doesn’t check his phone because it’s business-time, he feels it vibrate a few times in his pocket. When he finally emerges out into the sunshine, there’s a bunch of notifications on his phone, but none of them are Louis.  
  
There’s a text from Alberto. The fact that he’s texting Harry isn’t unusual - he often texts Harry to let him know Louis is on his way home, or gives him updates on where they’re at. It never oversteps any boundaries - he doesn’t tell Harry if Louis is having a bad day, or what kind of mood he’s in, but always gives him a heads up if he’s about to drop a tired or drunk Louis on his doorstep. That’s why it’s especially unusual to see that the text from Alberto reads _Really bad day. Think L needs you._ There’s no text from Louis, no missed call. Frowning, Harry does what few partners can do to find out what is going on in their other half’s lives - he googles. The first result for “louis tomlinson rovers” is a BBC Sport article. _Louis Tomlinson: Doncaster Rovers takeover is off_ , the headline reads. Harry’s fingers go numb on his phone, and he’s suddenly very grateful he’s sitting down. Unease roiling in his stomach, Harry clicks the link.  
  
 _John Ryan, the businessman who was set to take over Doncaster Rovers with Louis Tomlinson, has said the deal is off._  
  
Heart sinking, Harry reads on. Apparently with the failure of the crowd funding venture, the Football League had put a stop to the Tomlinson-Ryan Trust takeover. He exits out of the article to call _Becks_  again. This time, Louis picks up.  
“Hey,” Harry says, and waits.  
“Hi,” Louis says, and his voice is tight.  
“I googled you,” Harry blurts.  
“Always a bad idea,” Louis says.  
“Lou - what _happened_?”  
“We got fucked over, that’s what,” Louis says, and there’s something about the tired way he says it that betrays all the times they’ve been fucked over before.  
“Modest?” Harry asks, furious.  
Louis laughs. It’s not a pleasant sound. “Nah. For once it was someone else, if you can believe it. Football League put a stop to it.”  
“I thought the deal was done? Like, signed and everything?”  
“It was. But with the failure of the thing, the assholes decided our fucking _business plan_ wasn’t good enough. Cunts.”  
There’s a moment of silence after that.  
“So I’ve got nowhere to be for the next few days,” Harry says slowly, and knows immediately he’s said the wrong thing by the way Louis snorts.  
“Yeah, I guess neither do I,” he says bitterly.  
“Lou-“  
Louis sighs. “Sorry. I just-“  
“It’s okay. Come back home, yeah? Let’s take a few days. Just you and me.”  
“Just you and me,” Louis says on a noisy exhale. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”  
“I’ll sort it,” Harry promises. “Get your butt on a plane. I have plans for it.”  
“Idiot,” Louis says, but Harry can hear his smile, even as Louis hangs up on him.  
  
Harry does, in fact, sort it, and texts Alberto the details before he stops at home. He’s only there long enough to grab his suitcase, not yet unpacked from tour, and stow it in his car, before he heads to meet Gemma. He makes the necessary calls as they have lunch, while his sister ignores him and instagrams the table, Harry carefully not in shot. Neither he or Louis have anything pressing to deal with for at least a week, so he lets everyone know they might be out of contact for a few days. There’s a few people who know where _just you and me_  means - Paul, Cal, their Mums, the boys - but everyone else can wait.  
There’s a party at Shoreditch House as afternoon blends into night, and Harry poses for photos and makes nice with the young, flashy execs from Warner who slap him on the back heartily and chat as if they’re comrades-in-arms. Gemma has long abandoned him, and when he eventually finds her, she’s drinking Pimms cocktails with Gemma Chan, though she pauses in conversation once he flops down beside her on the couch she’s claimed. She narrows her eyes at him.  
“You alright, H?”  
“Yeah,” he says, smile still on his face as he nods at someone across the room, gives a little wave. “Just ready to be _away_.”  
“There’s nothing that says you can’t start early,” his sister tells him sensibly. “As long as you aren’t followed, who’s to know you’re not going home?”  
Harry thinks about it for a moment. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “Yeah, I could go up tonight.”  
Gemma pokes him in the side. “I bet you already have your shit packed and everything,” she says.  
Harry scowls, and Gemma gives him a push. “Go on then, loser. Get lost.”  
He hugs her fiercely, ignoring her squeak and the way she pokes at him to let go. “Love you.”  
“Love you too, froggy.”  
Harry can’t resist mussing up her hair for that, darting out of the way when she goes to retaliate, alcohol making her just a second too slow.  
  
He’s out of Shoreditch within a half hour, which is an achievement considering there’s no looming shadow of a bodyguard behind him, and he gets stopped for about a bazillion selfies on the way out. The flashes start as soon as he hits the street, paps in his face, shouts of  _did you have a good night? why are you going home alone? did you hook up with the twitter girl? do you like it when girls send you porn? are you dating anyone?_ He ignores them all, and makes it to the safety of his car without being stopped by fans.  
  
Harry puts on his _driving north_  playlist - the kind of songs he grew up listening to, Journey and Fleetwood Mac and the Rolling Stones and Bruce Springsteen and the Cranberries and Steve Miller Band - the songs that remind him of summer days in his backyard, chasing Gemma around with a water pistol only for her to retaliate by dumping him into the pool. He hums along, smiling when he realises that Louis will be on a plane by now, and by the time he’s on the M1, he’s singing along with Mick Jagger, _I know it’s only rock n’ roll, but I like it._  
  
The sun is beginning to rise by the time the high gate of the house comes into view. Harry pulls into the drive and rummages for the remote stashed somewhere in the console of the Range Rover. By the time he finds it, he’s been hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion, the long day and week away from Louis catching up with him. Neither of them sleep well without the other, even spending so much time apart, and Harry’s relief is tangible as he rounds the bend of the drive and the house comes into view. There’s no need to hide the Rover in the garage, so Harry pulls up right out front, grabs his laptop and his suitcase and hops out of the car.  
  
There’s no key required, only a keypad, because fuck knows they’re both pants at knowing where their keys are at any point in time, so it only takes a few seconds before Harry stumbles inside, dumping his suitcase by the door. The house is familiar, even in the dark, and he sheds clothing as he goes, making a beeline for the bedroom. The big bed is cool and empty without Louis, but Harry flops into it with the knowledge that when he wakes up, Louis will be with him. Louis will be here, in their house.  
  
There’s about fourteen people in the world who know Louis and Harry own a house in the country. Even fewer people have actually _been_ to the house since they bought it. It’s not in their names, of course. That’s too easy to track. It’s owned by a company that’s owned by _another_  company, layers upon layers of legalese and ridiculousness that Harry used to think was unnecessary. But it means there are only fourteen people in the world who know that the beautiful converted barn on five acres of nothing else, ringed by trees and a stone fence older than either of them - only fourteen people in the world know that this place is _theirs_.  
  
The barn is many things; a promise, a wish, a defiant yes-we-can-have-our-cake-and-eat-it-too. The barn is their _after_. Their _one day._   And when they need time away, when they’re too visible in London and LA is half a world away from where they need to be, when it all gets too much, Harry and Louis go to the barn. Their barn, the big kitchen with an entire wall of windows they never have to worry about people looking into, the living room and the dining room and the study and the library, most of which stand empty. The only one of five bedrooms with furniture in is the master suite. They figure they’ve got the rest of their lives to fill this house. There’s no need to rush into it.  
  
*  
  
Harry’s only been asleep a few hours when he startles awake. The room is dim, but in the light peeking around the edges of the curtains he can make out a familiar silhouette.  
“Mnnh,” he says, and stretches, still half-asleep.  
“Shhh,” Louis says, pulling his shirt off over his head.  
“Mmm,” Harry says, as Louis’ shorts come off, trying to force himself toward wakefulness.  
There’s a chuckle as Louis moves toward the bed, and when he pushes at Harry’s shoulder, he goes obligingly, rolling over onto his side. Louis tucks himself in behind, curling around Harry’s body.  
“Love you,” Harry manages, sleep-soft and quiet.  
Louis presses a kiss to he back of his neck. “Sleep, Haz.”  
They sleep the whole day away.  
  
*  
  
When Harry wakes, it’s proper dark, no light at all coming from beyond the curtains, and a squint at the digital clock casting a soft blue glow over his bedside table tells him it’s just gone seven pm. He yawns, still exhausted, and considers just rolling over and going back to sleep, but his bladder promptly informs him that’s not a good idea, and his stomach has an opinion on skipping dinner.  
  
Sometimes, having money really does come in handy, Harry thinks, scratching idly at his stomach as he surveys the full-to-bursting fridge. He’d called ahead to the service that keeps the house for them, and it’d been no trouble for them to do a grocery run and stock the kitchen before he’d arrived. Breakfast for dinner, he decides eventually, unable to resist the bacon calling to him, and starts to gather what he needs. He’s unsurprised when Louis appears not ten minutes later.  
  
Louis is scowling at the bright lights of the kitchen, wearing just his pants and Harry’s discarded blue shirt, which probably smells a bit ripe by now. Louis doesn’t seem to mind, though, and Harry feels his dick twitch at the sight of all that tan skin peeking out around where he’s only done up one button.  
“You left me,” Louis says, pouting as he takes a plops himself down on one of the comfy stools on the other side of the counter. “I got cold.”  
Harry doesn’t try to contain the smile that spreads across his face at that. Louis bitches something chronic about Harry’s tendency to sleep _on_  him, always ending up with his head on Louis’ chest and spreading himself over the other man like a blanket, but Harry knows he misses it when they’re not together.  
There’s plenty of room in the kitchen, but they sit close on stools at the breakfast bar, shoulders touching as they demolish the full English Harry’s thrown together. Eventually they’re both full and Harry leans over to rest his head against Louis’ shoulder, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend’s waist.  
“Bed?” he asks.  
“Shower,” Louis says. “We’re rank."  
  
Showering together always has a high probability of turning into sex, but they’re both still so exhausted, end of tour and the events of the past few days combined, so when Louis draws them a bath, Harry settles into it gratefully.  
Louis is leaning back against him, tracing idle patterns on Harry’s knee as he sits in the V of Harry’s legs, when Harry decides now is as good of a time as any to ask for clarification.  
Harry poses his question carefully. “So... is it absolutely not going to happen?”  
Louis sighs. “I don’t know. I think so. It’s just - Tomlinson-Ryan ownership? That’s definitely done. The League doesn’t think Ryan has the business sense to give the Rovers a stable future, and he  _was_  the business side. I was just the - the fucking  _poster boy.”_  
Harry hums, non-committal, and waits for Louis to continue. “Martin thinks we _might_  be able to work something out, but he told me not to get my hopes up. It’s so shit, cause, like, we’ve  _done_  this. We had weeks of bloody back and forth, then Modest stuck their noses in, then we’d  _signed a fucking deal_  that everyone was happy with, and now it’s off.” HIs voice is thick with disappointment. “I just - I wanted this so  _bad._ "  
Harry brings his arms up to hold Louis tightly. “I know, boo,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”  
Louis sighs. “Not your fault,” he says. “It’s just - you know.”  
“Yeah,” Harry says, and they sit there in silence until the water starts to go cold, and Harry manhandles his boyfriend out of the tub and onto the bathmat, drying them both off while Louis just stands there and lets him, exhausted and pliant like a child.  
“I was totally going to suck you off,” Louis says, though it comes out mostly as a yawn.  
“Tomorrow,” Harry says, kissing his damp temple.  
Louis is dead on his feet even after a day of sleep, pliant and malleable the way he only gets when he’s truly exhausted, and he doesn’t protest when Harry settles him back in bed, when Harry hooks a leg and an arm over him and rests his head on Louis’ chest.  
“Love you,” Louis says, already drowsy and warm and comfortable, and Harry kisses the skin underneath his head.  
“Love you too."  
  
*  
  
Harry’s an early riser, usually. He’s always slow to engage in the mornings, but he’s used to waking early. He’s not surprised to see that the clock is showing it’s just gone seven when he wakes. When he gets out of bed, Louis shifts at the loss of warmth and weight but doesn’t wake, turning onto his side and curling up into a ball. With a fond smile, Harry leaves him to it.  
  
He’s humming to himself and cutting up things for a fruit salad when hands snake around his waist. Harry nearly stabs himself with a paring knife, even more dangerous because he’s not wearing pants.  
“Sharp things!” he yelps.   
Louis pinches him for good measure. “No stabbity stabbity, clumsy. I need you in one piece.” There’s a huff of breath on his shoulder, and Louis rests his head against Harry’s back, seemingly content to just stand there, pressed against him as Harry makes breakfast.  
“Missed you,” Harry says lightly.  
“You too,” Louis says, and tugs the knife out of his hand.  
Harry lets it go, bemused, and Louis sidles up to the counter beside him.  
“Hi,” Louis says, smirking up at him. “Come here often?”  
“Not as often as I’d like,” Harry says honestly, and moves so he’s pressing Louis against the counter, bodies touching chest to knee.  
“Me either,” Louis says, and his tone is bitter, so of course Harry has to lean down and kiss the bitterness away.  
  
They make out slowly against the counter until Louis’ stomach rumbles loudly.  
“Right,” Harry says, pulling away. “Breakfast.”  
Louis pouts, hand slipping down to brush against Harry’s semi-hard dick. “I want you to fuck me,” he says. “Food later.”  
“Food first,” Harry says firmly, shimmying out of Louis’ reach. He smiles, face lit up like sunshine. “Otherwise we won’t eat for the whole day.”  
Louis concedes the point, and fetches the yoghurt and the muesli.  
Breakfast is a quiet affair, the clink of spoons against bowls the only sound as they both check their phones. There’s nothing urgent on either device, but a flood of comments and comiserations to Louis and quiet inquiries to Harry.  
Harry watches as Louis opens Twitter and sets about cleaning up, resisting the urge to read over his shoulder. He’ll check later.  
  
When Louis sets his phone down, Harry is there to spin him around on his bar stool and kiss him breathless.  
“You taste all yoghurty,” Harry says, licking along Louis’ bottom lip.  
“Gee, I wonder why,” Louis says. “You taste like kiwi.” It’s making his mouth tingle, and he licks into Harry’s mouth for a minute longer before he pulls away. “Enough,” he says, taking a bemused Harry by the hand and leading him to the couch, which, thanks to open-plan living, is only seven feet away.  
Harry goes easy under Louis’ manhandling, letting himself be pushed down onto the couch. Louis digs impatiently between the couch cushions. He’s _sure_ there’s lube in this couch somewhere.  
“Looking for this?” Harry says, dangling the bottle in front of his face.  
Louis’ boyfriend is _magic_. “Where did you…"  
“Sat on it,” Harry says sheepishly.  
“I’ll kiss it better,” Louis says, taking the bottle from his hands. He tips some out onto his fingers, messy and impatient. He’s restless with the need to get fucked, the need to have his boyfriend inside of him, to make him forget about anything other than the hard cock splitting him open.  
“Jesus, Lou,” Harry says, watching as he fingers himself open, two fingers at once stretching his rim open, spreading the lube around. His hand is wrapped around his own hard cock, pulling himself to full hardness. Louis’ mouth waters at the sight, the beautiful hard cock in Harry’s hand that’s brushing his own. Louis adds a third finger, revelling in the almost-burn of too much too soon.  
“Slick yourself up,” he says, and watches as Harry fumbles with the bottle, as he tips the lube down his heavy shaft, as he jacks himself to coat his cock evenly.   
Louis pulls his fingers out abruptly and adds his hand to Harry’s, squeezing around the girth. His hole throbs in anticipation.  
“Lou, you’re not-“  
Louis cuts him off. “I am ready.” He raises up on his knees. “C’mon, Haz.”  
Biting his lip, Harry steadies him with one hand and guides his cock to Louis’ hole with the other.  
  
*  
  
It’s never  _easy_  for Louis to take Harry all at once, not if it’s the first time in a while (or a couple of days, really), but things worth doing are never easy. And fuck is this ever worth doing. Louis obviously thinks so, if the way he works himself down on Harry’s cock is any indication. He takes it slowly, biting his lip, but doesn’t stop until he’s resting on Harry’s hips. He takes a moment, smirking down at Harry as he clenches up deliberately. Harry’s mouth drops open of its own accord, and fuck, he’s panting _already_ as Louis digs his fingers into Harry’s shoulders for balance, lifting himself up again only to let gravity slam him back down.  
  
Louis works himself down on Harry’s dick like he’s trying to punish it, taking it too fast and too rough to be entirely pleasurable. Harry realises with a start that Louis is fucking like he’s trying to punish _himself_ , and he can only imagine what for. He’s gritting his teeth against the burn, fucking Harry in a way that’s going to ensure he’ll feel it for days, and not in a pleasurable ache way. _No,_  Harry thinks as Louis drops himself down again, _I can do better than this._  
  
*  
  
Harry grasps Louis’ hips tightly, and lifts him completely off Harry’s cock.  
“Hey!” Louis protests, suddenly bereft as his knees come back into contact with the couch on either side of Harry’s thighs, Harry’s cock a wet slide against his arse cheeks, instead of  _inside,_ where it _should_ be.  
Harry’s hands are on his hips again, manhandling him until they’re pressed together, until Harry can wrap one arm under Louis’ arse and another around his back, lifting them both off the couch. He’s gentle, too fucking gentle as he lays Louis out on the rug in front of the couch, and Louis’ skin prickles. He loves Harry, loves sleepy, slow, gentle lovemaking, but that’s not what he wants right now, and his skin itches with the need to get _fucked_ , hard and proper.  
He sighs. “Haz-“  
“Shut up,” Harry says, and Louis blinks. _What?_  “On your knees.”  
 _That’s more like it,_  he thinks, and scrambles to do so, rolling onto his belly and getting his knees under him. Harry slips a hand around his waist and yanks him upward.  
“Come _on,”_ Harry says, cock grazing the inside of Louis’ thigh as he gets his hands under him and settles on all fours. “That’s better,” Harry says, and two fingers trace the rim of Louis’ hole. “So pretty,” he says, voice low.  
Louis scowls, shoving himself back in an effort to impale himself on Harry’s fingers. Harry moves them out of the way, though, and a hand smacks down on his arse in rebuke.  
“Greedy,” Harry says.  
“Harry,” Louis says, putting enough whine into his voice that Harry responds with another slap, another hot handprint colouring his arse cheek.  
“You’ll get what you need, Lou, don’t worry,” he promises, moving his hands so he’s gripping Louis’ hips tight. “But when I say so.”  
Louis opens his mouth to protest, but there’s the touch of something else against his hole and then Harry _pushes_ , slamming in. It’s one long, continuous slide until his balls are slapping against Louis’ arse, until Louis’ toes are curling and he’s biting his lip at the burn, too much and not enough all at once. Harry uses his grip on Louis’ thighs to slide himself out, pushing Louis almost all the way off his cock before pulling him back, the movement sharp and forceful and resulting in the soft slap of flesh on flesh as Louis’ arse meets Harry’s pelvis.   
  
Louis moans, head dropping down so his chin is touching his chest. From this angle, he can see all the way down his body, see his cock wet against his belly, pre come dripping from the tip can see Harry’s strong thighs between his own. He shifts so his weight is mostly on his left hand, reaching down with his left so he can wrap his hand around his own dick, forming a fist to fuck into-  
“No,” Harry says from above him, tugging Louis’ hand away from his dick. Louis fights him for a moment, because Harry’s being a _bastard_ , getting off is the _point_ , but Harry’s stronger, tugs his hand back down so Louis is on all fours again.  
“You’ll come on my cock, Lou,” he says, chest settling against Louis’ back, arms bracketing Louis’s own as he keeps moving. “All over yourself, all over the floor. Just from being fucked.”   
He’s got less leverage now he’s pressed flush against Louis, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Harry ruts into him hard, little snaps of his hips that hammer Louis’ prostate with every movement, in and out and in and out and _in,_  until Louis sobs and _comes_ , untouched, spurting against his own belly and the rug beneath them. His arms go out from under him, and he falls to his elbows, arse still in the air.  
“There you go,” Harry says, voice strained, now, fucking into Louis with uneven, short thrusts, grinding into the aftershocks of Louis’ orgasm. His hands are bruisingly tight on Louis’ hips as he thrusts deep one final time, and comes.  
  
*  
  
Louis seems content to lay out on the rug for a bit, tucking a couch cushion under his head, but Harry goes in search of a flannel, cleaning himself perfunctorily before he dumps another flannel on Louis’ head. His boyfriend bats it away, eyes closed, and Harry laughs but leaves him to it, ties his hair up and gets on with the day.  
  
He spends the better part of two hours sorting his emails out and going over the schedule for the next week while Louis snoozes on the rug, sprawled out completely starkers.  
  
In fact, it isn’t until Harry’s making sandwiches for lunch that he manages to coax Louis back into the land of the living with the smell of coffee. Well, it’s probably the coffee machine, to be honest, but Louis puts his underwear back on and stumbles into the kitchen, making grabby hands at the mug of tea Harry’s in the process of fixing for him.  
“Gimme,” he says.  
Harry tuts, holding it out of his reach. “Come outside, Lou, we can eat out there. Get some sunshine.”  
“ _Tea_ ,” Louis says, grumpily, but he picks up the plate of sandwiches and follows Harry out through the sliding doors and into the garden.  
They sit on the edge of the little wooden deck, feet dangling into the garden bed below, and Harry’s famous turkey-and-mustard sandwiches. Louis sips silently at his teawhile Harry drinks his coffee. It’s quiet, but not awkward, and Harry revels in the comfortable silence, the ease of just _being_   _together_ , with nobody watching or asking anything of them.  
  
At least, it’s a comfortable silence until Louis’ mug thunks down on the wood of the deck, until he launches himself down onto the lawn and makes straight for a stray football, slightly deflated and with grass grown up around it - who knows how long it’s been there. He’s all lean, precise movement as he runs across the lawn, making a beeline for the discarded ball until he’s close enough to boot it, kicking it as hard as he can without missing a step. He stops abruptly once the ball disappears into the longer grass further away from the house, hands curling into fists, lines of his back tight with frustration.  
 _No,_ Harry thinks. _Not today_. He’s not going to let Louis get lost in his frustrations today. That’s not what _just you and me_  time is for.  
On the soft grass, even Harry is silent, and he runs at Louis, puts his shoulder in and tackles his boyfriend to the ground. His hands come up to cradle Louis’ head as they fall, getting between that precious head and the ground, but they still go down hard, knocking elbows and knees and everything in between.  
“Got you,” Harry laughs, but Louis fights dirty, hooks a leg around his hip and digs fingers into his ticklish ribs and rolls them over. They wrestle for a moment, rolling over and over in the grass until they’re both breathless.  
They roll to a stop with Harry on his back, panting slightly as he looks up at Louis, who settles himself on Harry’s hips, smug. There’s grass stuck to his cheek.   
“I win,” Louis smirks.  
“I let you,” Harry counters, and it’s only half a lie.  
“Cause you loooove me,” Louis sings, shifting his hips just  _so._  
“No,” Harry says, and Louis’ eyes have time to narrow before Harry continues, “NO! NO!”  
Louis scowls, and digs his fingers into Harry’s ribs. Harry laughs, and pulls Louis down so they’re flush, so it’s easy for Harry to roll them over, to press Louis down into the grass and kiss him lazily.  
  
It’s reckless, even in the garden of this house, in the shade of a tree outside their house that nobody knows about, in the middle of nowhere. It’s reckless, the way Harry pushes his pants down to his thighs and Louis wiggles until his are dangling from one ankle, the way Harry spits into his hand and coats his cock with it, the way he presses Louis’ thighs back toward his shoulders with the weight of his chest and lets gravity do the work for him, sinking balls deep into the man beneath him.  
Louis is hot and tight around him, wet with lube and Harry’s come, and he can’t examine that thought too closely let he prematurely add to the mess inside Louis.  
“Yes,” Louis says, voice a grunt. “fuck yes, Haz,  _yes_."  
“No!” Harry says, punctuating the word with a particularly deep thrust, making his voice high and panicked. “No! NO!”  
Louis narrows his eyes at the mocking and, very deliberately, clenches  _tight_  around Harry’s cock.  “Let it go, Haz.”  
Harry grins. “Let it go! LET IT _GOOOOO_!”  
“Oh God,” Louis says, and draws him down into a kiss to shut him up. It’s hot and filthy, sloppy as their mouths don’t quite meet up properly, Harry still doing his best to put grass stains on Louis’ back, hips still moving.  
Harry draws out slowly, pretending not to notice the trembling in his arms, and  _slams_  his way back in.  
Louis whines, eyes slipping closed as he fists his cock.  
Harry grins. “Look at me, Lou,” he says. Louis unclenches one hand from where it’s fisted in the grass by his head, and waves it lazily at Harry, as if to say,  _yeah, no, I’m a little busy here._    
“I  _said_ ,” Harry manages, twisting his hips just  _so_ to graze against Louis’ prostate on his way out, “ _look_ ,” thrusting in, “ _at_ ,” slowly drawing out, “ _me_.” He fucks back in, hard, and pauses, balls deep and trying not to move, despite every part of his wanting to just fuck back out, back into the welcoming heat of Louis’ arse.

Louis’ eyes snap open, glaring at him, and Harry laughs at the joy of it, hitches Louis’ left ankle up onto his shoulder, and hammers into him again. Louis moans, shameless and loud in the middle of nowhere, sunlight filtering through the trees above them, dappling tanned skin and making him glow.   
“You gonna come with me, Lou?” It shouldn’t take long, both of them worked up and oversensitive, panting hard with every thrust.  
“Yes,” Louis says. “Hold on-“  
Harry can’t, and comes, cock twitching inside Louis as he strokes himself faster, tightening around Harry’s cock. Harry flinches and pulls out gently, oversensitive. He slumps to the grass beside Louis and reaches over, tracing the head of Louis’ cock as Louis lets out a low groan and comes, all over Harry’s hand.  
“You need to eat more fruit,” Harry says, licking at the mess before wiping it off on Louis’ stomach.  
Louis swats at him lazily, and they lie there for a while, until Harry’s skin starts to itch with sweat and cooling come.  
“I need a shower,” Harry says with a groan, getting to his feet. “Coming?"  
“Nah,” Louis says, pulling his pants back on. “I’m going to hunt down that footie."  
  
*  
  
Harry takes a quick shower, resisting the urge to take a long, hot one and just fall back into bed. Louis comes in from outside when Harry’s searching for clean pants, now covered in sweat and looking delightfully wrecked, grass in his hair and smelling of come.  
“I am disgusting,” he says cheerfully, smacking a kiss to Harry’s mouth, and heads for the shower.  
Harry just grins, heading to the kitchen. He demolishes a bottle of Gatorade, getting another out of the fridge for whenever Louis wanders through next. He’s stacked the dishwasher and is starting on the heap of dirty clothing inside their suitcases (both of which were dumped by the front door and left there) before Louis comes to find him in the laundry.   
“My good little housewife,” Louis says fondly from somewhere behind him, as Harry’s carefully measuring out washing powder. A hand comes up to massage his shoulder.  
“Yep,” Harry says, shoulder muscles going loose and relaxed under Louis’ touch.  
“You’re always so good to me,” Louis says, kissing the skin where his fingers have just been. “Love you, H.”  
“I love you too.” Harry smiles down at the washer, closing the lid and reaching for the buttons when a firm hand between his shoulder blades presses him downwards. Off-balance, Harry flings his arms out to stop himself from face-planting into the top of the washer, button-mashing as he catches himself. “Heeeey!”  
“Keep your hands right there,” Louis says from behind him, kicking at his right ankle. _Oh_ , Harry thinks, and moves his feet wider, obliging. The washing machine is cold where he’s pressed against it, but there’s the warmth of Louis’ breath puffing out over his arse, so Harry thinks he can probably get over it.  
“You always know what I need,” Louis says to the skin of Harry’s thigh, kissing the place where arse meets thigh. “It works both ways, H."  
“Yesss,” Harry hisses, as Louis spreads his cheeks and runs a teasing finger over his hole.  
“You gonna keep still for me, H?” he asks, before there’s the warm, wet sensation of a tongue tracing the pucker of his rim.  
Harry nods, gripping the sides of the washer for dear life. “Yes."  
  
*  
  
Harry makes a strangled sound as Louis licks over his hole.  
  
Louis licks in again, pushing his face closer, nose bumping up against smooth skin. Harry may have cleaned himself up after he put Louis on his knees in the living room, but this close, he smells like sex and sweat as Louis flicks his tongue over the pucker of his arse, teasing. He snakes a hand up between Harry’s body and the washing machine, and his hand closes around Harry’s cock, still mostly soft but definitely interested. He strokes Harry to hardness as he licks, long broad swipes of his tongue over Harry’s asshole, revelling in the sounds Harry makes, little hitching gasps of breath, whines high in his throat when he trembles.  
“Oh God,” Harry says, voice choked as Louis points his tongue and works it inside, the tight muscle of Harry’s rim giving under his attention, as if welcoming him in. Louis wiggles his tongue and draws it in and out, making Harry curse with every lick.  
Harry’s fully hard now, and when Louis lets go of his dick it rises up to bump against the cold aluminium of the washer, making Harry hiss.  
  
The small tube is warm where it’s been pressed against his skin, tucked just inside the waistband of his underwear. No pockets, see, and Louis knew he’d need his hands free if he managed to catch Harry in the right position. The snick of the cap opening is lost underneath Harry’s moans, and Louis tips lube blindly over the fingers of his right hand, rubbing them together before he brings his hand up and pulls his face away. Harry’s noise of protest is immediate, but Louis pulls his cheeks apart again with his clean hand, watches as Harry’s hole winks at him, clenching around nothing. Ever obliging, Louis gives Harry what his body is begging for, and presses two fingers inside at once. Harry’s body, used to the stretch, accommodates the breach of his fingers with nothing more than a whimper from Harry himself. Louis darts in to trace his tongue around the rim of Harry’s arse as his fingers move, coaxing the muscle into stretching for him, carefully avoiding Harry’s prostate, even when the man above him thrusts his arse back shamelessly, trying to get his fingers deeper, running out of curses and instead making the prettiest little noises Louis has ever heard.  
“Tart,” Louis says fondly, kissing the gentle swell of one arse cheek. He frees his own hard cock from his pants, tucking them down underneath his balls, now full and tight. He doesn’t remove his fingers from Harry’s arse as he stands, spreading his fingers wide so he can guide the head of his cock straight into the space between his fingers. He holds there for a moment, watching the muscles in Harry’s back move as he tries to wiggle backwards and force Louis deeper.  
  
Louis slides his fingers abruptly out of Harry, twitching as Harry clenches around him at the loss, and slaps his hand down between Harry’s shoulder blades to keep him still, to keep him in place.  
“Please,” Harry pants. “C’mon, Lou, give it to me.” Well. Louis is only human. Who can resist a request like that? Louis thrusts in slowly, drawing back out before he’s more than an inch deep, until only the head of his cock is inside Harry. He fucks him like that, working himself deeper with each thrust, Harry clenching up each time he pulls back, as if to hold on so tight Louis has to stay inside him forever. He fucks in over Harry’s prostate, knows he’s hitting it with every thrust when Harry cries out.  
  
Louis remembers fucking Harry for the first time, slow and awkward in their hotel room on the X-Factor tour, unsure of what the future was going to hold but absolutely certain that he wanted to be with this boy for the rest of his life. That he wanted to fuck Harry, and only Harry, for the rest of his life. He’d been so young, wide eyes and flushed cheeks and so very trusting, sweet little noises punched out of him as Louis fucked his way inside, and it was awkward and painful at first, but when Louis got it right, when Harry threw back his head and moaned, when they got it right, he was like nothing Louis had ever seen before. And he’d trembled with the effort not to come but he’d kept his thrusts smooth and even, trying to find a rhythm that worked for them, that would make Harry come.  
“ _Gonna come_ ,” Harry says from underneath him, startling Louis from his daydream, and he realises he’s been fucking Harry to the memory of that first time, that he’s close himself. His fingernails have made crescent-moon indents on Harry’s back, and he picks up the pace as Harry shudders around him and comes, all over his hand and the washer he’s bent over. Harry comes apart underneath him, whining high in his throat, and Louis follows him down, fucks into the delightful clenching aftershocks and comes hot inside the love of his bloody life.  
  
*  
  
“Unh,” Harry says eventually, lifting his head from where it’s lying on his arms. “Now I need another shower, you bastard.”  
“You loved it,” Louis says cheerfully, pulling out gently.  
“I don’t know if I can stand,” he says honestly, but he pushes himself upright nonetheless and wrinkles his nose at the feeling of come sliding down his thigh. Unlike Louis, it’s not a feeling he particularly _loves._ On slightly unsteady feet, he heads for the shower.  
He spends long enough in the shower for his skin to start pruning, even washing his hair this time around, in what he hopes will be his last shower of the day. Harry realises he may have to consider that thought, though, when he emerges from the bathroom.  
  
Louis is on his knees beside the bed.  
  
“Jesus, Lou,” he says, feeling his cock twitch painfully at the sight. “Again?”  
“What,” Louis says, opening his eyes wide and playing coy, “can’t you get it up again? I had _so_  hoped you’d fuck my mouth, Harry.”  
Harry scowls. He knows Louis gets like this sometimes, too wound-up and frustrated to relax. He knows sometimes he has to fuck it out of his boyfriend, just hold him down and _take_  until there’s no more pent-up anger, until Louis is truly exhausted, loose-limbed and content. He’d sort of thought they’d _done that already_ , though, isn’t sure his body’s really up to the task again. It’s been a long time since they had days like this, since they could just fuck all day until they physically couldn’t come any more.  
  
Louis opens his mouth, eyeing Harry’s length as he starts to stroke himself. It’s slightly painful, but his body responds to the physical stimulation and the sight of Louis on his knees, licking those pretty lips, and Harry’s dick starts to fatten up in his hand.  
  
*  
  
Louis can feel his mouth watering in anticipation. Harry jacks himself off in front of Louis’ face, close enough for Louis to reach, and he stretches out his tongue, but Harry moves away. A rough noise of disappointment edges out of Louis’ throat, and his mouth drops open.  
"I know," Harry whispers sympathetically from above him, and then he's guiding his cock into Louis' mouth, one hand cupping the back of Louis’ head.  
Closing his eyes, Louis sucks desperately, moving his tongue in wide swathes, then patterns of circles, up and down and around until Harry’s breath hisses out from between his teeth and he thrusts. Louis shoves himself forward, into the movement, ignoring the way his own hard cock is straining up towards his belly. It’s messy and rough and there’s spit drooling out of his mouth, on his chin and slipping down his neck. It’s glorious, the way Harry knows what he needs and just  _gives it to him_ , one hand cupped around his head and the other tracing the seam of his mouth, stretched wide around Harry’s cock.  
“You’re so good for me, Lou,” Harry says, thrusting in, not rough but  _owning_ , just taking what Louis has to give, heat and wetness and a ready hole to fuck into.  
Louis loses time like that, Harry thrusting in deep and holding Louis’ face to his skin, as deep in Louis’ throat as it’s possible to go, the way they can’t ever do unless they have a few days off. Louis sucks harder when Harry pulls back, grunting, knows Harry’s close to coming, and Louis  _wants_. This, here, this is something he can have, something he can  _do._  
“You’re perfect,” Harry says, and Louis flushes at the praise, as Harry's thighs tremble under Louis’ hands, “I love you so much, Lou, god-"  
Harry pushes his cock into Louis’ mouth until he swallows, until Harry comes straight down Louis’ throat, until he pulls out so the last drops hit Louis’ chin and join the mess of spit already there.  
  
 _“Harry,”_ he says, and he sounds thoroughly fucked, voice wrecked. It’s a plea for something he can’t quite put into words.  
“On the bed,” Harry says, and watches as Louis climbs to his feet, wincing at the state of his knees before flopping onto the bed, drawing his legs up as he settles on his back.  
“Come on,” he demands, and spreads his legs so Harry can see between them, so he can see the flushed, puffy rim of Louis’ hole.  
Harry obliges, grabbing the lube on the bedside table and climbing onto the bed to sit between Louis’ spread thighs.  
“God, you’re _filthy_ ,” Harry says in awe, fingers tracing the hot skin of Louis’ asshole. He’s still loose from this morning, and still slightly wet, lube and Harry’s come still slicking his insides.  
“And whose fault is that, Harry,” Louis says, but the snark is lost as he throws his head back and tightens up around Harry’s two slick, probing fingers, as they pull him open and graze across his prostate.  
“Touch yourself,” Harry says, and Louis remembers abruptly that he’s hard, _dripping_ with pre come, and he wraps his fingers around his cock, which is hot and sore but still so very hard.  
“You going to come for me, Lou?” Harry asks, watching Louis jack himself faster, finding Louis’ prostate every time his fingers twist over the head.  
Louis nods, and his asshole spasms around Harry’s invading fingers as he comes, hot and wet across his chest. He strokes himself once, twice, three times and then lets his hand fall to the side, cock still twitching through the aftershocks.  
Harry can’t resist the tap on the swollen little gland under his fingers, watches as Louis’s beautiful cock, flushed and pink and wilting, twitches.  
  
*  
  
Louis snaps his thighs shut around Harry’s arm, glaring. “Don’t you da - _nguh,”_ he finishes, as Harry rubs his prostate again.  
“C’mon, Lou,” Harry says, looking down at him. His own cock is soft against his thigh, but his gaze is hot as he stares down at Louis. “You can do it. For me, baby.”  
Louis lets his legs fall open. His whole body twitches as Harry rubs a fingertip gently over the little gland again. “I don’t know,” he manages.  
“I do,” Harry says, and he takes Louis’ cock in his other hand. Louis groans at the touch, cursing his oversensitive prick as it responds to Harry’s touch, like some sort of Pavlovian response. _Boyfriend is touching me. Must get hard. Must come._  
“I can’t,” he pleads, but he’s starting to think he can, watching his traitorous cock get hard under Harry’s ministrations, the relentless press of fingers against his prostate.  
“You can,” Harry says firmly. “I know you can, Lou. You’re so good for me. I love you, baby, and I know you can.”  
Louis squeezes his eyes shut, feels his arse tighten around Harry’s talented fingers as they rub inside him. Harry lets go of his cock abruptly and Louis’ eyes snap open. _That’s_  not fair. “Haz-“  
“You can come without it, Lou, I know you can,” Harry says, and his voice is even but his face is flushed. His fingers press more insistently now, firm pressure and then a moment’s respite then more firm, rubbing pressure.  
“I know you can,” Harry says coaxingly, not watching his fingers but watching Louis’ face instead, “I believe in you baby, you can do anything you put your mind to.” And he knows, Louis _knows_  that Harry’s not just talking about coming, about coming untouched, he knows this is one of Harry’s metaphors and - _oh fuck_  - his boyfriend is such a dork, only Harry bloody Styles would use a ruined orgasm as a metaphor for _life_ , but he can see the honesty in Harry’s face and when Harry’s fingers press down one final time and he says, “Come for me, Lou-“  
  
Louis does. His orgasm hits him like a blow, every muscle in his body tense, his cock oversensitive and sore as come _drips_  out of him, slow and ruined and with no force at all, pleasure settling over him and making his body go suddenly lax.  
“So beautiful, Lou,” Harry says, working him through it, fingers still teasing at the little gland inside of him until Louis has to reach down and bat at him weakly, when it finally becomes too much.  
  
*  
  
Harry draws his fingers out slowly, presses gentle kisses to Louis’ belly. “You’re amazing.”  
Louis makes a sound of assent, carding his fingers through Harry’s hair.  
“Can we sleep now?” Harry asks, flopping onto his back.  
“Mmmmm,” Louis says, unmoving.  
“You need a shower, though,” Harry says, though he doesn’t move. “Also, dinner.”  
“No,” Louis says, and Harry shrugs. He’s content to lie here for a bit. They’ll wake up starving again, for sure, but he doesn’t mind. It’s worth it, to just curl himself over Louis now, both of them come-sticky and filthy, muscles loose and relaxed.  
  
Tomorrow, in their barn in the middle of nowhere, they’ll be idiots together, maybe spend an entire day playing kickabout in the sun (punctuated by sly tackles and kissing in the shade, no worries for long lenses or fans with iPhones), and Harry will wear little-to-no clothing and Louis will be shirtless. Maybe they'll curl up with blankets at night and lay outside and look at the stars and wake up covered in morning dew. Their phones will be off and nobody will ask anything of them, and they’ll drift through the rooms of their country house and never draw the blinds. One day, there will be children in this house, Harry is sure of it. Quiet children, loud children, curly-haired smiling faces demanding piggyback races through the house and footie in the backyard and the quiet time of baby yoga.  
  
For now, it’s enough that every now and then, they get to have this time. Time to themselves, away from everyone else.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! let me know what you think below, or come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.downintinpanalley.tumblr.com/)


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